


The Namesake

by faradays



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Marriage, Psychological Trauma, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faradays/pseuds/faradays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the years that follow the long war, Jon and Sansa struggle with the responsibility of honoring both the living and the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Namesake

\---

_By Decree of Jon of the House Targaryen, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, In the name of Queen Daenerys Targaryen the Stormborn, the First of Her Name, Mistress of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm – who shall know nothing of this matter, as she is also called The Dragon Queen for good reason, not least of which is the fact she is in possession of the last three and very real fire-breathing dragons in Westeros._

_– That no issue from the rather wonderful matrimonial union of two people who do not argue over anything ever, except on principle and over matters of state of middling importance and when the husband in question spends too much time in the training yard and chasing off wildlings and not enough going over the books – no children resultant from this otherwise faultless marriage that is in no small part due to the near-saintly patience and compassion of the wife in question who goes over the books well enough for both of them, which is why the husband does not feel the need to have to go over them again, when she is clearly so brilliant at balancing the ledgers and dealing with obstinate stewards with more efficiency and grace than he – will be named after any of the dead. Whether their state of decease be widely believed or privately known to a very select number of trusted peoples in the Seven Kingdoms._

_Moreover, the decision will be made entirely in consultation with one another, and no third party will have any influence in this decision, even if said third party is in possession of the aforementioned last three fire-breathing dragons known to Man._

_To be implemented forthwith and with all the duly haste that merits this matter of great and important consequence._

_Authorized by Lady Sansa of Winterfell._

\---

Theyare married at Riverrun’s sept, of all places _._ For despite the fact both Jon and herself insisted on waiting in order to be wed in Winterfell’s godswood, Daenerys Targaryen had put her Queenly foot down and would not have any of it – she _would_ be in attendance at her nephew’s wedding, but could not spare being so far from King’s Landing, not while her grip on the Seven Kingdoms was still so new and tenuous. The sept and the septon was equally necessary, if she was to bring the followers of the Faith Militant to heel. 

(Her great-uncle Brynden, never one to mince words, had similarly advised them to “just get on with it.” “More harm than good may come of the delay at the rate you two are carrying on, if you understand my meaning.” The stern, pointed look that accompanied his counsel had been wholly unnecessary; they knew very well what he meant. The Blackfish had been there since the very beginning, after all; had fought beside Jon at the Battle of the Eyrie, was present in the High Hall when their eyes met from across the open Moon Door. As their campaign swept through the Vale, Brynden was there during all the moons that followed; had seen Sansa and Jon fight alongside one another during the day and against each other once night fell, as they struggled to navigate through their complicated history, the revelation of Jon’s parentage, and the strange and deep surge of emotions that their reunion had brought out in them, which steadily grew stranger and deeper with each passing day. What finally culminated in Gulltown would forever be known only to the two of them, but he must have noticed how afterwards, everything had changed.

Sansa, having spent years traversing and conquering the gap between seeming and being, only barely managed to keep her horrified mortification to herself. Jon, therefore, did not stand a chance, and his flush reached the tops of his ears.)

After much wheedling and a barrage of empty threats from both sides, they finally relented to being wed in Riverrun – a rough middle-ground between the north and south – before they set off northward on the Kingsroad. The flurry of preparations began at once; the war, so newly over, left very little of anything to spare towards a celebration of any kind. Their banquet would be scanty, they are warned, and the guests would be few.

But Sansa does not care a whit. It is not her impending nuptials that colour her dreams with anticipation, but the prospect of home. Even in sleep, her eyes are turned towards Winterfell. The edges and details are blurred like a clouded glass by the vicissitudes of memory, and the distance between them curved and refracted, like a telescope lens. But there it is – looming in the distance, its icy parapets peaked in white snow. No castle made of snow could have done it justice.

She wakes with her heart slurring off its beats, as if she’d somehow run all the way from the North to be back in her bed in Riverrun before the sun rose. For Jon is still here; and despite how much she yearns for Winterfell, she will not leave him behind. That is a promise they’ve already made to one another; therefore, though the wedding is merely a formality, Sansa intends to keep her word. The back of her mouth tastes of fresh snow, and the word _soon_.

\---

But there are other nights too, and other dreams.

At first, Sansa thinks they have followed her out into the waking world. She would be walking through the Keep, or stealing a laugh and a kiss with Jon in the Wheel Tower, and suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck would rise. Sansa knows when she’s being watched; has years of experience from both sides, knows that the most dangerous eyes are the ones you cannot see for they can be anywhere, anyone. The thought used to paralyse her with fear, when she was ten-and-one. But she is now eighteen, and has long forgotten how to turn a corner without looking over her shoulder first. She is habituated to the rustle of invisible fabric, the echo of voices following her into a room. She does not know who she should be without it.

But the war is over, and these are no spies; they are her family, come back to her at last. While her back is turned, Arya and Rickon play in the snow, scooping it up and crushing it between their hands, laughing and thrilled by the cold. The steady footfalls that trail hers belong to her lady mother, who will in a moment or two lovingly run her fingers through her hair. In her dreams she can see their faces, just as they were; beautiful and perfect, suspended in the crystal of childhood. But in the light of day, when she turns, they vanish into thin air. It is for the best; she does not know how to welcome them, or to fear them.

One night, it is Bran who comes to see her. They stand facing one another in the godswood; not the snowy, insulated godswood of Winterfell, which was perpetually cloaked in a solemn shade, like an unknowable world unto itself. No, this is Riverrun’s godswood, where it is bright and airy, more garden than religion in Sansa’s eyes. But there he is; Bran as she remembers him, _whole_ and warm, his arms outstretched and a smile on his face. So why does she not run to him? Why does she not drop to her knees and take him into her arms, cling to him and never let him go? Why does she scream?

After breaking her fast the next morning, where she is more quiet and withdrawn than usual, she quickly retreats to the godswood to wait for Bran, to beg his apology. But instead of her brother, she finds Brynden standing next to the weirwood tree.

“There you are,” he says, smiling. “Thought I might find you here.”

Crushed, Sansa is still trying to conjure up the will to return his smile when she hears the soft clatter of footsteps behind her. She whirls around; heart in her throat, momentarily forgetting herself and the rules of daytime – _they live when she does not look_ – but of course, there is no one, only a dark, empty loggia, swept over by the cold morning draft.

When she turns back around, she sees from Brynden’s expression that he heard it too. It is drawn tight, and she wonders – do the ghosts come to him as well? The possibility fills her with both relief and trepidation.

But her great-uncle comes towards her, and takes her gently by the arm. “No matter what her family has done to yours, she is a Tully now, and therefore your kinsmen,” he says softly. “Remember that she is a widow and you a bride. Try to find it in your heart to be kind to her.”

Sansa stares up at him, utterly confused. Who is it he speaks of, and what does it have to do with her family, who are undoubtedly breathing and laughing and playing at this very moment – somewhere, certainly, just somewhere not here? It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in; and when it does, the realization hits her like a blow to the stomach – no, she knows what that’s like, and this is infinitely worse – and she reels from the impact, a cold, dead weight suffusing every inch of her being. 

“Roslin,” she whispers, “it’s been her the entire time.” Brynden nods soberly, and Sansa begins to tremble – not with grief, but with rage. Who exactly does Brynden believe he is, acting as if he were her father, looking upon her with such sad pity? But the bitterest bile Sansa reserves towards Roslin Frey – towards the girl she has not yet fully clapped eyes on except for the briefest of glances, despite their weeks at Riverrun. The pale-faced creature of infamy, whose existence previous to this moment seemed less real to Sansa than Bran had in her dreams. Anger has the power of bringing anyone to life, Sansa knows this, ( _Do not think of Lady Stoneheart, do not think of that slit throat, the glassy, rheumy eyes…_ ) and in the blinding surge of her wrath, Roslin is suddenly transformed from a mere spectre into something very real; a target, an object, a scapegoat for her disappointments. Sansa hates her for destroying her illusions, as half-realized and ridiculous as it was, she sees now with painful clarity. Has Roslin Frey not done enough? Must she kill her family a second time?

“Has she gone mad?” Sansa asks coldly. She has heard about the dead baby boy, her dead husband, Sansa’s own uncle. She does not specify who the mad one could be. 

Brynden shakes his head. “No, Roslin is perfectly sane. But she fears you.” As he says this, Brynden looks at her steadily, as if studying his niece for any trace of the Sansa Stark that Roslin Frey is so desperately terrified of.

He will find none there. Sansa has long since learned the best weapons are left concealed.

\---

_We stood_ _beneath the weirwood tree, like the good little subjects we were – I tried to look demure and a little shy, Jon stoic and grand, the both of us biting the insides of our cheeks to keep from laughing_.

Roslin was not in attendance at the ceremony, nor does she make an appearance at the feast, and it is easily the best wedding gift Sansa receives that night. She dances with Jon, with Brynden, even manages to coax Sam to join her for a song. The minstrels play on and on, and the High Hall is filled to the brim with laughter and merriment; the entire evening seems full to bursting, every moment of it saturated with light and sound, and Sansa realizes that she had forgotten how delicious life could be.

Laughing, Sansa politely refuses several offers to dance, in favour of discreetly excusing herself in order to run a shaking brush through her hair before her bedding. She slips into her chambers, entire body strung tight with joy and anticipation; instead, she finds Roslin waiting for her, weeping into her hands. 

It is the first time Sansa has seen her completely and alone, and beneath the initial shock and fury, is vaguely disappointed at how innocuous Roslin has turned out to be; but then again, Sansa has always had the talent of building people up in her head. Instead of the monsters she has painted all Freys to be, Roslin seems, at first glance, to be purely, painfully human. Just a woman, same as her, only a little shorter and with loose brown hair, a strand of which clings to her bottom lip when she finally lifts her face from her hands and addresses Sansa:

“I named my boy Edmure, as my little one gasped his very first and his very last. I held him in my arms, and I damned him to the same fate as his father.” she wails softly, plaintively. “I loved him. I loved both of them. Why would I do such a thing?”

Sansa stands there, frozen. There is no possible answer to such a question, yet somehow, her stricken words take root in the very core of Sansa’s being, as if it were a question whose answer she had been seeking all these years, and hadn’t realized.

But Roslin does not seem to care about Sansa's silence; in fact, she doesn’t even seem to notice who it is she is speaking to, though her arms are outstretched, asking for understanding as a begger would for coin. Sansa suspects she could have been anyone, anything, and it would not have made a jot of difference. She wonders if Brynden was entirely correct in his assessment of Roslin’s mental state. “Life is no longer for the living,” she continues to moan through her tears. “Now we must share our bed with ghosts.”

In that moment, it dawns on her that perhaps this is not what Roslin had waited in her bedroom to say to Sansa. Whatever the girl intended to tell is a mystery, and one that Sansa is not keen to solve. But what is even more troubling is the realization that, having finally seen the girl, all the personal enmity that Sansa once held towards her has disappeared. Before this moment, it had not occurred to her that Roslin had made herself absent from the wedding not out of consideration for Sansa’s feelings, but her own. Shocked and overwhelmed by the mixture of sympathy, resentment, and anger this girl incites in her, Sansa bows her head, murmurs, “Excuse me,” and flees the room. Leaving Roslin alone with her tears and her unanswerable questions.

Deeply shaken, Sansa slowly makes her way back to the High Hall – her wedding banquet, she reminds herself numbly, which had been so real, so lively a moment ago. But the music now seems to her more distant, as it drifting from some faraway place, made tinny and surreal over the distance. Even the laughter of her guests has somehow become muted, insubstantial. Or is Sansa the one who has lost all her substance? If someone were to turn around, to notice that she’s rejoined the feast, would she disappear, as if she had never been here in the first place? Like Bran, like Rickon and Arya and her mother? Would she be carried off in the arms of the dark winter wind, would it at least bring her away from here, and take her home?

\---

(“Of course you’d hide at your own wedding feast,” Sam jokes, joining Jon in his secluded corner. “That’s the Jon Snow I know, Targaryen or not. Where is your fair bride?” Jon grins, is about to open his mouth to admit he’s not sure, that she left him minutes ago to fend for himself, when he sees her, hovering at the entrance to the Hall. She is deathly, bloodlessly pale, and her eyes stare unseeingly into the crowd, wide and unfocused. She looks lost and frightened. A stab of fear runs through his heart.

“Excuse me,” he says, leaving his friend, and shoulders his way through the drunken revellers to make his way to his wife.) 

\---

In marriage – or at least, in the ones that work – there is no use in keeping score.

They learned relatively early on that unlike war, of which they both knew plenty, there is no victory to be found in matrimony; only endless compromise and a great many lies gently said. Their union is a negotiation that has now lasted more than a year, and the true saving grace of it all is that neither of them knows if it really ought to be this hard (Sansa’s previous marriages had been difficult as well, but for vastly different reasons). Falling in love is practically a pratfall compared to surviving what comes next; but luckily, Jon and Sansa also know a thing or two about survival.

The only real problem would be if they couldn’t be sure of the other’s allegiances. Once upon a time in the Vale, Sansa remembers Ser Jaime had said something to that effect. _They make you swear and swear_ , he’d muttered under his breath, only for her hearing, as they watched the next in a series of proud lords bend the knee to the Dragon Queen. Some are not so old – he’d said, eyes as hard and sardonic as ever – that they would not remember Mad King Aerys, remember forswearing the Targaryen yoke for Baratheon not so long ago. And all, at one time or another, had sworn to coat their swords with Tyrell or Martell or Lannister blood in the bitter factionalism that had characterised the long war. So who’s to keep track of it all? What is the penalty in defending one vow if it ends up violating another? There are a thousand and one reasons to fear a man like Jaime Lannister – Sansa knows this well, well enough to know half are hearsay and that the rest do not even begin to resemble the gory truth. But in that moment, what terrified her most of all was implicit in Jaime’s speech: what if all the swearing, all that pageantry – what if it means absolutely nothing at all?

But Ser Jaime left - abruptly, and in the middle of the night, without so much as a note or a clue as to where he went - and took his cynicism with him, and Jon stayed. That might not seem reason enough to believe that the promises one makes – to a cause, to a flag, to one another – continues to carry weight, in the post-war silence of crossed lines and defiled gods. And in truth, it’s not. But Jon stayed, and continued staying, and slowly, tentatively Sansa is becomes more open to the fact that it all must still mean _something_. 

Therefore, while she appreciates the difficult situation Jon is in, being both Targaryen and a Northman, at this moment she needs him to be neither. She needs him to be _her husband_ , and most of all, someone capable of seeing common sense.

“We are not,” Sansa says, summoning all the steel she has in her power, “naming our child after Aegon the Conqueror.”

From his place at his desk, Jon’s eyes drop back to the contents of the parchment in his hands. “He’s not on the list,” he reports back, a note of relief in his voice. But it is short-lived; Jon leans in closer, peers at a spot in the black script, and winces visibly. “But, um. His dragon is.”

Sansa’s hands fly reflexively to the soft swell of her stomach, horrified. “Balerion,” she clarifies sharply, not quite believing what she’s hearing. “That’s the one they called the Black Dread, isn’t it. No, actually, don’t tell me.” She waves her hands frantically in front of her face before Jon is able to inform her _why_ _yes, that is indeed the very one_. “I’ve decided I don’t want to know.”  

To his credit, Jon’s expression is rather pained as well. In any other situation, if the mental health and overall sanity of their child were not at stake, Sansa would have been proud of his stab at diplomacy. “There are others. And all of them merely suggestions, she assures us –”

“She is a Queen, and therefore incapable of merely suggesting _anything._ ”

“But some are truly better than others,” Jon gestures. “Care to have a look?”

“ _No_.” Sansa snaps angrily, snatching up her sewing once more. Gritting her teeth, she mutters, voice low, “It’s a test, that’s what this is, of whether or not we’re loyal enough to sacrifice the psyche of our child with a name like _Balerion_.” Her twisted stitches are yanked out with a vehemence that suggested they were in league with Queen Daenerys, that they were the traitors who planted the idea in her crowned head. “Seven hells, it seems that a little exile did nothing for the infamous Targaryen paranoia.”

She hacks away at her embroidery, aware of Jon’s dark eyes on her. Silence descends in their solar for a few moments more, save for the crackling of the fire, the minute implosions of kindling. Finally, he declares; “Well then, it’s a test we’ll fail, if that’s what you want.” Jon crumples up the Queen’s words with a sigh, as if that was quite the end of that. But instead of tossing it into the fire, Jon drops it onto his desk. The ball of paper tumbles next to his inkwell. Silence again. Sansa bows her head, focusing determinedly on her work as Jon watches her, a small twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. He plants his elbow in the ledges before him and leans his chin against his hand, admiring the firelight in his wife’s copper hair. Patiently waiting.

After two industrious rows of fine, delicate stitching, Sansa’s hands suddenly, abruptly drop back to her lap. Her pointed scowl meets her husband’s fully-fledged grin as she thrusts out her hand, relenting to morbid curiosity. With one easy movement, Jon tosses the paper ball to Sansa, who catches it with equal ease. Smoothing out the parchment with her palms, her eyes run down its contents. Sansa blanches.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not a test,” Sansa amends, horrified eyes still fixed to the page. “It’s a death sentence. She hates us, and hopes that our future megalomaniac of a child will kill us all in our sleep.”

Jon laughs, and leaves his desk to stand behind his wife’s chair, bracing his hands against its back. “Perhaps we’re rushing to conclusions, just a bit.” He drops a kiss on the crown of her head. “In fact, I get the feeling that we ought to be grateful. At least she didn’t include any Dothraki names.”

“The gods truly are good to us,” Sansa replies dryly.

Instead of returning with a clever retort of his own, Jon suddenly goes very still and quiet. She senses it without having to see his face, can more than guess at what caused it, but barely has time to brace herself for the gentle hand on her shoulder. “You cannot blame her for taking an interest,” he says quietly. “This will be her heir.”

The words are not meant to cause pain (They are certainly both capable of wounding one another in this way; Jon with less frequency and agility than Sansa but she knows now, when provoked, anyone is capable of inflicting that kind of hurt once you’ve let them in, allowed them to come close enough) and it is certainly not something Sansa does not already know. But regardless, they are enough to drain all the lightness out of her, and like a cold first, seize the heart in her chest and chill the blood in her veins. _As if I needed reminding_. All of the sudden, she is no longer in the mood for their playful verbal sparring. “And I am only the mother.” With both hands, Sansa crushes the paper back into its crumpled oblivion.

Swiftly, Jon moves from behind her chair to kneel at her feet. He covers her hands with his own. “Our children will be of the North,” he swears to her, not the first time, “and we shall keep them here are long as we are able.”

Sansa studies his face carefully; his eyes are so dark they seem to swallow up the firelight, but they shine with a fierce conviction of their own. Not for the first time, she wonders how his faith managed to survive the war, for Jon remains hopeful and steady in a way that Sansa is not. _But if even Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully cannot protect their children…_ Such thoughts fill her every waking thought, a plague that chases her through the evening hours and into her dreams, until she wakes in a cold sweat and gasping for breath. _Don’t turn around; they live still in the corner of your eyes, just don’t turn around or you will kill them all over again._ The past has always been something to be kept at bay, like keeping one’s head above water. Each year the struggle becomes a little easier; but these days, as Sansa finds herself sapped of energy faster, more easily fatigued, more vulnerable, it becomes harder to fight. It is such a tempting thought, in her darker, weaker moments, to simply relapse and let the water overtake her.

Sansa looks over Jon’s shoulder. Inexplicably, Roslin Tully stands before her; shaded by the glowing light of the fire, her arms outstretched and her hands very wet.

Perhaps Jon sees her too, reflected in Sansa’s eyes, notices the tell-tale signs of his wife withdrawing from him, from the present and their life together. He knows, because he does it too. “Would you prefer a name from the North?” His hand slips from her hand to her wrist, presses reassuringly against the soft flutter of her heartbeat. He is trying to distract her, ground her. “Perhaps Brandon or Rickard, after your brothers. That’s about as Northern as they come.” Sansa closes her eyes, focuses on the sound of the winter winds battering against their windows, the feel of Jon’s warm hands.

_Come back to me_ , he is saying.

Sansa opens her eyes. “I wouldn’t,” she says, voice brittle as ice and coming from too high in her throat, sounding so very unlike her that she can hardly recognize it at her own.  

_I’m trying_ , she replies.

“Why not?” Jon asks. He means it not as a true question, but more as a way of drawing her out, coaxing her away from that particular ledge. For that is what they do for each other: that is why this marriage has worked as well as it has, has survived when everyone except the two of them believed it doomed to fail. Many a time, in the middle of the night, Sansa has crawled into Jon’s lap, cradled his wet face between her hands and pressed her forehead against his. _Breathe my love, breathe_. He would struggle for a moment, then gasp like an explosion, all the air pent up in his chest bursting out all at once, causing him to shudder violently in her arms, utterly spent. They stay like that for a while, waiting as the nightmare slowly recedes, until Jon remembers the mechanics of breathing. Sometimes the recovery is quick and swift, the time it takes for him to blink the sleep out of his eyes and remember himself and where he is. But other times, his arms would wrap around Sansa’s waist and crush her to him, a broken moan left in the crook of her neck, her hands in his hair, or rubbing soothing circles on his back, the shuddering of his chest reverberating into her own, knocking at her fragile heart that is so full of him.

There is no use asking him which of the dead has risen out of the ice tonight. Jon has already told her everything he can bear to recount, which Sansa suspects is more than he’s given anyone else. She would be lying if she did not admit there is also a part of her that does not want to know, that is afraid of what he would say; afraid of girls with fiery hair, burning eternally bright against the hellish white landscape of Jon’s nightmares. She once thought she was beyond feeling jealous of the dead; she was wrong.

( _So many ledges in the world, and only one of you_ , Sansa had said on one such night, very tenderly and only half-teasing. _So come away from it, Jon, and stay with me instead._ )   

“I just can’t.” Sansa shakes her head slowly. “I know I sound ridiculous, because I know, it’s just a name. It doesn’t mean a thing.” Just like invisible footsteps and familiar, childish laughter, signifying nothing; they’re not there, they never were, they mean nothing. She knows this now; she forgets sometimes, and briefly falls back into the foolishness that had consumed her at Riverrun. But deep down, this certainty never leaves her. With each passing year, their echoes fade out of her hearing. _I named him Edmure..._

Jon contemplates this for a moment before replying slowly, words carefully measured. “I have to disagree. First time I saw you again, I had to call you Alayne. I can’t tell you how painful that was.”

“I used to call you half-brother.”

This causes him to flinch. “Let’s not,” he says.

Something loosens inside Sansa; it’s become easier to breathe, and Jon comes into clearer focus; her Jon, with a face so much like her father’s. It brings out a palpable ache in her chest, but Sansa does not know whether it leads to a laugh or a cry. Theirs is a wholly unusual marriage in more ways than just one, and not least of them is the strange intimacy of their histories. Though they were never close as children – not as Jon was to Robb, or to Arya – it’s still there, and it’s still _theirs_. Every lost brother and sister and father and friend is his as much as it is hers. There’s no point in getting territorial over grief when there’s more than enough to go around. But that is not to say this past does not sometimes still hang heavy over them, does not sometimes estrange instead of unify. That they do not wake up some mornings and suddenly it does not matter that the war is over and Westeros is, ostensibly, at peace. That Jon is a Targaryen and was never her brother after all, that they now know each other free from the guilt and anger that had coloured their relationship as children.

Suddenly, Sansa is seized by a wild urge to ask if some days, if Jon does not see her; if he does not instead see Robb and her mother and a wildling girl that died in his arms, just as how Sansa sometimes sees her dead father, and all the men who have misused her in his face. Whether or not these memories are more potent than all of what they’ve built together. She wants to ask him this, all of this, though she knows it would only hurt him. And why would she want such a thing? Have they not been through enough, hurt one another enough?

( _I loved him and I damned him,_ Roslin cries out. _Why would I do such a thing?_ )

It might’ve been Roslin all along at Riverrun, but the ghosts were there. And here they are still, in fact, except now Sansa knows where to look, and they do not vanish when she turns to face them. They _are_ each other’s ghosts, and also each other’s rescue from them. Not for the first time, Sansa thinks: it is a strange life we lead.

 “What I’m trying to say is,” She closes her eyes; it’s easier not to look at him as she says this, in fear that it will not be her husband who looks back at her. “You’re right. It does mean something, and names have power. That’s why I don’t want a political statement, and I don’t want a tombstone either.”

“Then what do you want?”

If she were being honest, Sansa would admit that she hasn’t thought that far yet; sometimes knowing what you don’t want is much easier to discern than what it is you do. That way you can never be disappointed, only surprised. And sometimes you can even avoid that, if you’re well prepared enough. A flurry of half-formed thoughts fly through her mind: _I want life, I want a blank page, I want Jon and Winterfell and to be free of ghosts_.

She opens her eyes, looks back into Jon’s waiting ones. “I want something better for us.”

 “And we will have it.” Jon stands, and holds out his hand. “By the old gods and the new –”

Sansa’s hands unfurl, and she reaches out to take his; as he helps her to her feet, Daenerys’ letter tumbles to the ground, quite forgotten by both of them. Sansa feels shaky, like a newborn calf, or somehow reborn. That is what it feels like each time. “What use do I have of gods?” she asks.

In response, Jon pulls her into his arms and kisses her, soft and deep, like a promise. When they break apart, he murmurs, still a hair’s breadth away from her lips. “Would you prefer something written down, then?”

Sansa nods in mock solemnity. “Yes, please,” she replies.  

Their hands still entwined, Jon gently leads her towards his desk. He takes a seat and Sansa goes to stand behind him, their earlier positions now reversed. She watches, full of tenderness and love for this man, this ridiculous man who is so bent on making her happy, as he pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment and sharpens his quill to a point. _Sometimes_ , Sansa thinks, _I feel as though my heart could burst for loving such a man_. “Now, I want it to be _very_ official,” she instructs, carding her fingers through his hair. “No less than a leaf out of some old tome in Baelor the Blessed’s personal collection.” She gives his locks a gentle tug. “Titled _‘The Mating Habits of the Direwolf and Dragon’_.”

Jon grins, and dips his quill in ink. “As my lady commands.”

\---

 

 


End file.
